


Casualties of War

by JoansGlove



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [3]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, references to rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27434665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: Sometimes the only way to help is to hurt yourself
Relationships: Joan Ferguson/Brenda Murphy
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976404
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Casualties of War

It wasn’t as if she’d been expecting nightly calls from Ferguson or deep declarations of love or anything like that but she thought that she’d have had more from her than a handful of sterile _I’m fine,_ _how are you?_ texts and one solitary voice message received last week that said _thinking about you_. She’d stopped trying to winkle out from Joan how she was actually coping because Joan refused to answer any questions on that score – and Brenda saw no point in flogging a dead horse. On the plus side though, Joan _would_ say that she missed her, but only if Brenda said it first. It wasn’t as if she was infatuated with Ferguson – far from it – but sometimes their conversations were like pulling teeth. But like her mum used to say, something is better than nothing, and there would be plenty of time for all the soft little words when she got back to Wentworth. This last week though had been particularly tough, notable by the complete radio silence, and Brenda had a horrible feeling that something bad had happened to Joan.

It had – as she discovered when she overheard Hagen and O’Shea gossiping on the final day at the training centre.

“Linda reckons Proctor literally fried the bitch. Surprised though, thought they were best buds.”

“Yeah, right, that won’t stop her. You see her after the ganging? Like it never happened. Jeez, she gives me the creeps – sooner she goes interstate the better.”

“Gotta be game to fuck someone like Ferguson though, ey?”

“Or hard up!” Hagan wheezed out a chuckle like a struggling sump pump and Brenda fought down a sob of horror.

That she managed to keep the tears at bay as she packed away her gear was nothing short of a miracle but there was no stopping them when she reached her car. Ugly, fat tears that coursed down her crumpled face and soaked her collar. A gnawing pain lodged behind her ribs and stayed there.

She’d known women who’d been raped and had seen how their lives withered under the sentence imposed by their attacker. She’d seen women turn into ghosts after a prison ganging, seen them mutilate themselves, even kill themselves. It was the most desperate 72 hours of her life.

She paced the flat, unable to eat, unable to sleep, the smoke from her ever present cigarette stinging her raw eyes and throat as she imagined the worst. Her mind was full of ruses that would get her into H3, excuses to get her into Joan's cell. None of them plausible but all of them feeding a sense of false hope. She kept the burner in her pocket, ringer turned to the max, praying that Joan would break the silence and call. At one point she found herself on the highway heading east towards Wentworth, knuckles tight white on the steering wheel, jaw aching as her teeth clenched in wrath. Mercifully a sense of self-preservation carried her on past the turn off and she’d veered south and driven until the land ran out, embracing the chill wind of the sea as fear and anger burned her from the inside.

*****

First shift back at Wentworth and, of course, it was a fucking nightshift, the only consolation was she’d be able to slip away and see Joan in private. “What’s this bullshit?” she muttered, scanning the worksheets. “Medical Isolation all week?”

“If you don’t like it, speak to the Governor,” said Jackson appearing at her shoulder. “She wants someone to nursemaid Ferguson. Just listen to her crap and report back on her. She’s up to something.”

Brenda bit the inside of her cheek, breathing through the sneer that threatened to curl her lip; trust Vera to try and punish Joan by sticking her in isolation again. Little did she know that she’d rostered on her only ally to watch her. “ _Nursemaid_ her?” She scoffed and puffed out her cheeks in a show of annoyance, her noisy exhalation masking the sudden flutter of trepidation, because she knew their reunion was going to be awkward.

“Yeah, just give her painkillers if she needs them and help her get changed if the nurse isn’t there. Nothing too major.” She eyed him briefly then turned back to the notice board. “Count yourself lucky,” he said, “She’ll be asleep for most of it. The new guy, Jake, has to put up with her shit all day every day.”

“Yeah, I remember what that’s like.” She injected a bitter twist to her words and Jackson nodded, satisfied that she had the right attitude. 

“Right, that’s me done here.” Brenda looked up from her crossword, nodded at the supply nurse, and thought to herself how she was no substitute for the cute one, Rose, whom she was replacing. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning then.” Brenda nodded again and returned to nine down: ‘Loved ones found in a puma’s roar’. _Paramours_ she filled in with a slow grin of achievement. Her eyes slid to the only occupied cell. Joan's. As if on cue, she appeared in its doorway and beckoned her with a jerk of her head. It was time for the thing Brenda had been trying not to think about to happen.

Her heavy steps echoed in the claustrophobic hallway and she hesitated on the threshold, preparing herself. It was as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff as she watched Joan seat herself regally on the bed and invite her in with a curl of her fingers. Stepping inside she wished that she had a cigarette, Joan must know she knew what’d happened.

Brenda grasped the nettle straight away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. Hands on hips, she leant heavily against the wall, eyes flickering expectantly over Joan's pale features. She looked buggered. Nearly as bad as when she arrived from Sinclair.

Joan seemed surprised at the tension lacing Brenda’s question “It’s only a burn,” she said mildly, glancing down at her bandaged hand resting on the pillow in her lap. “It’ll heal.” She was expecting Brenda’s grimace, the chewing of her lip as she looked away with a scowl, and the sigh of displeasure as she finally swung her head back to face her – so she wasn’t disappointed when she got all three.

“Yeah,” said Brenda tightly, “That’s a worry too, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what happened straight after I left.”

Joan regarded her truculently for a moment then exhaled loudly herself. “It’s not the sort of thing you just drop into conversation, is it?” She flinched as Brenda’s head jerked back, a tut of exasperation escaping her lips like a bullet as her irritation overtook her concern.

“Fuck’s sake Joan! When have I ever cared about polite conversation, eh?”

She looked away, not wanting to see the pain in the other woman’s face. “And what could you have done if I _had_ told you? Nothing, that’s what. Not unless you wanted to blow what we have wide open and lose your job in the process.” Her eyes found Brenda’s again and she swallowed the flare of guilt at the woman’s anguish. “No, I thought it was better that you didn’t know. No point in both of us suffering.”

Although Brenda was dismayed at this clipped and clinical explanation she could see where Ferguson was coming from – as much as the fantasy of riding in and dishing out comfort and vengeance appealed she could see Joan's very valid point. But that didn’t stop her lips from thinning and her forehead furrowing at Joan's stubborn independence and her inability to have anyone feel sorry for her – and at her own sense of uselessness. The urge to take Joan into her arms was suddenly overwhelming and she felt brimful of tears, but for some reason they couldn’t make it to her eyes. Despair churned heavily in her guts. “I could have been there for you,” she said in a voice thick with emotion.

Joan's ramrod posture slackened and a grateful smile appeared on her face and, more importantly, in her tired eyes. “You were,” she said gently. “When did you ever ignore me, hm? Look, I, I…” a heavy sigh escaped her and she stared at her lap. “I didn’t tell you because I really don’t think it would have benefitted either of us. And deep down, I think you know I’m right.” She raised her chin as Brenda huffed in frustration, and levelled a frank look at her. “You knew that I had a compact with Smith; and why. And you didn’t have a problem with that, did you? Those women just got there first. The mood they were in, I’d be sitting here in a wheelchair, or worse, had they had taken it into their heads to dish out a beating. But they didn’t, they decided to gang me and, like it or not, a ganging evokes far more sympathy amongst the women than a broken face ever could. They did me a favour.” 

Joan's words stung like a bitch, making Brenda sag. “A _favour?_ ”“ she hissed, tears finally glittering in her tawny eyes. “You call _that_ a favour? They fucking raped you!”

“Look, what they did they did to my body, my reputation – not to _me_. It wasn’t as if some man decided to take what he had no right to, it was an act of war, pure and simple – it was their mistake to assume that I would take that type of assault personally. Don’t you see?”

Brenda shook her head ruefully. “I do, but I don’t have to like it,” she acknowledged darkly, her pout heavy and sullen. “It was Gambaro, wasn’t it?”

“Very perceptive,” congratulated Joan with a tilt of her head. “Just her way of welcoming me to the block. But don’t you worry, I have plans for her.”

“So, what happened here?” she asked tightly, fingers flicking towards Joan's gauntlet of gauze. She’d heard the official sanitised version and the unofficial gossipy version, and was interested now to discover Joan's version.

She rippled her sore fingers. “Proctor found out that I dobbed her in. Call it a miscalculation.” She wasn’t expecting Brenda’s laugh of surprise and stared at her quizzically.

“Miscalculation? Shit, Ferguson, I’m not fucking kidding – you really are a special child!”

Joan detected the admiring tone in Brenda’s voice and dipped her head in thanks. “As are you, Miss Murphy, and that’s why I like you.” They shared a wry, twisted smile, and relaxed – fractionally.

Now that the ice was broken Brenda stepped closer and inspected the pristine bandages. Joan smelled of sweat and hospital disinfectant and there seemed to be a little more silver streaking her thick hair. She stopped her hand from reaching out to stroke its silkiness. “Does it hurt much?” she asked.

Joan nodded. “Like a beast. They keep trying to fill me with codeine but it fucks with my head. Ah well,” she said lightly, “These things are sent to try us.”

“You damn well try me at times, Joan,” she snapped as her annoyance resurfaced. “I’ve been a frigging mess since I found out on Friday. I’ve been imagining all sorts of things and then I find you here cool as a cucumber –”

“Hey, hey, I know, I know –” she placated, patting the air with her good hand.

“ _How_ would you fucking know? You haven’t even asked how I am!”

Joan looked bewildered. “That you’re making such a fuss tells me all I need to know.”

“A fuss?” she hissed. “Really, you think this is ‘making a fuss’?” Brenda felt her face scrunch up as anger crawled through her. “Fuck you!” she exploded, turning away then turning back again, eyes flashing with hurt defiance. “If I want to be upset for you I fucking will. I care about you, Joan. A lot! You don’t get to tell me when or how to feel.” The waves of resentment streaming from her were almost physical and they made Joan's skin itch.

“Be sensible, woman. I do if those feelings endanger us both,” came the steely reply. Brenda glowered at her and Joan instantly regretted her tone. “Look,” she said, rising and catching hold of the angry woman’s arm, “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. Prison is no place for sentiment. Please, come and sit down so we can talk?” Even though Brenda’s jaw jutted like a prize fighter’s she allowed herself to be persuaded over to the bed.

They sat side by side, close enough to feel each other’s body heat but the distance between them seemed eternal.

“You should have told me. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Joan felt Brenda’s eyes on her as she considered the question. Friendship. Not something she craved any more, and certainly not something that crossed her path with any great frequency.

Having a friend is a double edged sword for someone like Joan. To expose yourself is a scary thing when you’ve lived the life she has. To know that there’s someone else who knows you almost as well as you know yourself is unsettling. Especially if you reveal yourself to the wrong person. And for someone like Joan it’s doubly hard because she’s so used to managing on her own that she’s forgotten the knack of sharing, of being able to rely on someone else. No-one in her life had ever really been interested enough or cared enough to ask ‘ _are you alright?_ ’ and actually mean it, and so, when presented with someone who does mean it, and who gets upset when she quite naturally shuts them out, well – it’s unsettling, disconcerting… frightening, even.

Perhaps that’s why it was so difficult for Joan to ask the same question of Brenda. Of course, it was understandable that she’d be upset on her behalf, because Joan saw the fire that burned hot beneath her craggy attitude – you just had to look in her eyes to see the volcano – but she was already burnt enough: she didn’t need either of them to be scorched further. But what she sensed in Brenda was a kinship, a dark streak of understanding and acceptance, and she wanted that so much it scared her.

And regrettably, all of these unusual feelings were only heightened by her loosening grip on sanity. She wasn’t stupid, she knew something was wrong. There was this high thrumming sitting in the back of her skull that niggled away at her, tight and unstoppable as she tried to claw her way out of her current predicament. She’d failed to neutralise Smith this time around. She had yet to secure a means of neutralising Jesper. And at every turn there was Vera, her malicious spite making every hurdle just that bit higher. Her mind was full of plans but the stress of birthing them was making her brittle, and this conversation tonight was costing more than she could really afford but it had to be had. 

Brenda’s face darkened as she mistook Joan's silence for a denial. “So, we’re not friends,” she said flatly and made to rise. Joan's hand on her forearm pulled her back down. She stared sullenly at Joan's fingers.

“I would say that you’re my only friend, and a good one too. But it’s hard for me, Brenda, you’ve got to know that. Being your friend – and the thought of more – is what helps me cope. But if I involve you in what’s going on then I’m only going to drag you down. And I can’t do that. I won’t.”

It had been easier without Brenda here, but now she was back and just the sight of her was causing Joan to experience feelings that could derail her plans – feelings that could derail _her_. She had the sudden urge to end it all, to run away and deny that there was ever anything between them, and she shifted uncomfortably as her skin became clammy from the sick heat flashing over her with sudden ferocity. Her throat ached with the words that would halt it all right now. But she had waited so long for a woman like this to enter her life she didn’t want to lose her before they’d even started. A ripping, tearing sensation in her chest pulsed with every breath.

In three weeks she went to trial, after which time she expected to be restored to her former glory, and she and Brenda would be free to pick up where they left off but in the meantime it would be easier to impose a hiatus. **Safer** flashed like a neon sign in her head and she bit her lip anxiously – at this point it felt like she couldn’t afford to let wayward feelings in to challenge her self-control, no matter how alluring they were. She took a deep breath and winced, distractions could not be tolerated. She had to push Brenda away for both their sakes.

“Listen,” she said, fingers creeping into Brenda’s palm but unable to look at her. “For the next few weeks I need for us to be no more than prisoner and guard. I can’t be the same woman I was five weeks ago, too much has happened – and still needs to happen. I’ve thought about this a lot and it’s the only way. I need your agreement.”

She swore and pulled away from Joan's touch. It boiled her piss that Joan was right. She was already sliding back into Governor mode, that much was clear, but damn her! “And if I say no? If I say that you’re being selfish and come to you anyway?”

Joan hesitated, her spine stiffening as she sought her answer. “Then you will see me experience a crisis of faith, and then you will see me say goodbye to you. Forever.” Her words were as stony as her expression.

Brenda frowned at Joan accusingly, her rosebud mouth drawn into a disapproving pout. “That’s blackmail.”

“Not really. Just how it is, that’s all.” She suffered the other woman’s opprobrium without flinching.

“Are you trying to give me the flick? Is that what this is really about?”

Joan’s denial burst from the deepest part of her. “No! No, I don’t–” she swallowed hard, grazing Brenda’s thigh with tentative knuckles as she tried to explain. “Please, Brenda, you must be aware that I want you, want you badly. You are the first woman to make me feel like this in what seems like forever and I desperately wish for our journey to continue, but if that’s to happen I need for ‘us’ to be put on hold until I get out. I’m relying on your pragmatism here. I need you to trust that I know what’s best. So please, I’m begging you, for the next three weeks I need you to be nothing more than a friendly guard. Will you – can you – do that for me?”

She regarded Joan for a moment then forced a sigh of agreement from her nose. “That’s looking likely, is it? Getting out I mean.”

“There’s a couple of wrinkles still to be ironed out but yes, it is. Very likely. But in the meantime there’s just too much I have to think about. I can’t afford the distraction you provide.”

“I’m not going to say that doesn’t hurt me but if that’s what you need then that’s what you need.” She smiled for the first time since Joan had invited her in but it was so miserable that Joan wished they were anywhere else but inside this fucking prison so that she didn’t have to see it. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling and forced the corners up into a sad smile of her own. 

“Thank you. I won’t forget your sacrifice.”

Joan eased her stiff shoulder and grimaced. “You getting physio for that?” asked Brenda, pleased for the distraction.

“Not so you’d notice.” She’d wrenched it in the fight with Proctor, and having to keep her hand elevated was putting undue strain on her already tender muscles. Just something else she had to contend with.

“Come here,” she said standing up and dragging the chair into the middle of the room. “No funny business, I promise.” 

Joan stiffened as Brenda’s warm hands eased off her t-shirt and settled on the curve of her neck. “Jeez, these are like rock!” she exclaimed, kneading gently. “Darl, you really need to relax a bit or you’ll do yourself a damage.”

“I’ll relax when I get outside the gates. Speaking of which, I need you to bring me the phone.”

As she dug her fingers into Joan's knots Brenda worked on reconciling Joan's motives with her own state of mind. She wasn’t telling the whole truth about the ganging – she was definitely hurting worse than she let on or, at the very least, had been – but Brenda had enough sense not to push it, relying instead on the hope that Joan would let her in when this was all over. And it wasn’t as if Joan was saying she was wrong to feel that way, to want to hold her, protect her, avenge her – no it was more a case of not acting on it and, more importantly, not letting it show in the first place. But that was hard for a woman like her, a woman whose feelings often flashed across her face before she had chance to wrangle them. It was going to take a fucking miracle for her to babysit Ferguson each night, to ignore her and not let anyone see what was going on in her head – jeez, almost like those bad old days back in the closet!

She would just have to get herself reassigned – safest thing all round. If she tells Vera that Ferguson's on to her, that she hasn’t forgiven her for passing on that letter and that she now refuses to speak to ‘the Governor’s mole’ – well, Vera will want find someone that she _will_ talk to, won’t she?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Joan’s low voice. “Thank you, it feels much better. I think I’d like to go to bed now. I’m tired.”

That was a polite cue for her to piss off but Brenda’s hands didn’t want to be separated from Joan's skin.

“Miss Murphy…” she warned and slid out of the seat. “Thank you, but I can manage from here.” Murphy gave her trademark shrug and checked her watch with a loud sniff. Chin high, she swaggered past Joan, and Joan afforded her a small smile in appreciation of the costly act. 

“See you in the morning then,” Brenda said as she swung the door shut. “You want a paper with your breakfast in bed?”

“Ha!” replied Joan, touched by the old familiar sarcasm. They were going to be alright, she could feel it.


End file.
